


here and there

by blobfish_miffy



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Afterlife, Bittersweet, Crying, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Male Friendship, Paul-centric, Present Tense, Rain, Sharing, Sharing an umbrella, Short One Shot, emotions influencing weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25942228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: Written for Writing Party #2, "Sharing an Umbrella" prompt.He opens his eyes slowly, blinking rapidly until everything comes into focus. The wet asphalt shines like a mirror, reflecting the grey sky above, and it’s eerily quiet. Across from him looms an empty, dark Lime Street Railway Station. The city, gloomy and grey, smells like wet stone and exhaust fumes despite the obvious lack of vehicles.He’s alone.***Paul's here. Not there.All of time is at his disposal, and he can do whatever he'd like.It ishisafterlife, after all.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr
Comments: 17
Kudos: 39





	here and there

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya!  
> I'm back, but not with Lil Help. No, something a little more gloomy.   
> I wrote this for the second writing party in my discord server. It's been heavily edited since then (i added like 200 words i guess) but it's still largely the same too.   
> I hope you enjoy!

Paul wakes up to the noise of rain. 

It sounds as if he’s resting under an awning, the continuous rumble a mix between the muted pitter-patter of drops falling on fabric and the sharp taps of drops splattering on pavement. It’s so similar to white noise that he would’ve fallen back into a slumber if he hadn’t been wide awake.

He opens his eyes slowly, blinking rapidly until everything comes into focus. The wet asphalt shines like a mirror, reflecting the grey sky above, and it’s eerily quiet. Across from him looms an empty, dark Lime Street Railway Station. The city, gloomy and grey, smells like wet stone and exhaust fumes despite the obvious lack of vehicles. 

He’s alone.

The sheer emptiness, the way the city looks completely and utterly deserted, is highly unnerving. As long as he’s known it, the place has always bustled with people and cars and bikes. He can almost hear the chatter, the rumbling engines, the raging claxons, and the faraway ambulance sirens – but he cannot.

If _only-_

“Took ye long enough.”

The voice is so loud in contrast with his surroundings that he startles, heartbeat briefly fumbling for a steady rhythm. And when he looks in the direction from whence it came, his heart might as well have stopped beating altogether. 

George is sitting next to him.

_ George. _

_ Young,  _ healthyGeorge, not older George. _Can’t-be-older-than-eighteen_ George, actually, wearing a leather jacket and a smile that’s still untainted by what’s to come. His famous quiff has lost all its volume, now plastered to his forehead in wet, greasy strands. 

He looks clearer than he does in Paul's memories, a place where the image of little Georgie is faded and blurry around the edges. But now, though the world around them is grey and dreary, this depiction of George is bright and full of colour. It’s as if he’s stepped out of a time machine. 

_ “George?”  _ his voice cracks.

“Care to share?”

Paul sits frozen for a couple of seconds before George inclines his head towards Paul’s hand. He’s holding an umbrella. “You’ve got one. I’d rather not get too soaked, love. Just ‘cause it’s not as shite here as it is there doesn’t mean I can’t feel it.”

Paul swallows. Stares. _“Georgie?”_ he repeats, feeling as though he might have gone insane. 

“In the flesh.”

The baffled silence that follows only makes George’s grin widen. “Hiya, Macca,” he says then. 

Paul’s eyes burn. The rain changes from a gentle drizzle to a heavy downpour.

_ “George,”  _ he says softly. There’s a lump in his throat that won’t go away. 

“‘s that the only word ye know?” he doesn’t stop grinning. “Jus’ me name? Must say it’s fuckin’ flattering, but I’m getting a tad worried ‘ere, mate-”

He immediately feels impossibly defensive despite the shock, and he tightens his grip around the handle of the umbrella. The lacquered wood is sticky against his palm. “I can say _other_ things, y’know.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance. George’s grin still hasn’t faded. “Knew you’d say that.”

Paul flares his nostrils and looks away, directing his glare at the wet pavement near his feet. He’s not wearing the pyjamas he went to bed in: instead of boxers he’s wearing jeans, and instead of socks there’s a pair of beat-up, black leather shoes on his feet he vaguely remembers throwing away sometime in ‘64. 

The rain lightens. 

He sighs. “Come ‘ere, then.”

The oddly young version of his late best mate scoots closer, settling against the wet wood with a sigh. Their legs are pressed together tightly and Paul can _feel_ George’s body heat. He presumes the only reason they’re sitting so close is so that George can’t get any more soaked than he already is, but it’s so weird to feel him again it’s almost nauseating.

Paul looks straight forward to get rid of it, dragging his gaze across the empty, wet streets and the abandoned train station. 

He blinks, once, twice. 

“Where are we?”

“Here,” sounds the incredibly unhelpful answer. “Not there, at least.”

“Am I dead, then?”

“Maybe,” George says happily. “Maybe not. Who knows. Bet ye just opened a door, mate.”

“From one car into the next?”

“Suppose,” Paul sees him stick his leg into the air, turning his ankle from left to right before settling again. “Takin’ off a suit too, I guess.”

Paul swallows, glancing at the lad’s profile. “That’s death, George.”

“Is it really?” George turns his head again, shoots him a small grin. He looks annoyingly satisfied and Paul resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

The rain worsens, hammering down on the umbrella.

“...yes?”

George sticks his hand out from under their little shelter. “Odd weather, this, mate.”

“Ye didn’t reply to me.”

_ “You  _ didn’t sound too sure.”

Paul studies George again. There’s no malice hiding in his young face, no hint of mischief. His eyes are bright, _kind,_ and his smile looks genuine. Paul exhales through his nose. “I dunno.”

“It’s fun sometimes,” George says, “not to know.”

“I don’t feel excited.”

“Do ye feel scared, then?”

“I’m-” he pauses, trying to figure out how he’s feeling. There’s no quickened heartbeat, no sweaty palms. His clothes don’t feel clammy and despite the way the world around him looks right now, he’s not cold or uncomfortable at all. “No…”

“What _do_ you feel?” his late best mate inquires, and Paul turns his head to stare at the empty streets again.

“I feel calm,” he answers quietly, surprised with how smoothly the words left his mouth, and with how much he agrees with them. “At ease.”

He can see George nodding from beside him. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Walk with me,” George then says, and he stands up and offers his hand for Paul to take. 

Paul does. 

George’s hand feels warm and dry, a stark difference to how it’d felt just a few weeks before he passed. The hand Paul’d been holding had felt clammy, then, sweaty, and the handholding would’ve been uncomfortable under any other circumstance. But his hand is now dry, and Paul can feel the callouses on his fingers. It reminds him of a time when they were young. A time when George wasn’t sick, and they weren’t old, and they couldn’t stop dragging each other around by the wrist. They’d been driven by emotion back then, uncaring and unknowing of the pain the future would hold. There have been times Paul would wish to go back to _then,_ when nobody was dead and they weren’t tired and still excited about the notion of having the world at their feet. Those heartaches could last for weeks. He always would revert back to being satisfied with what he had, though, as if he already knew that one day he’d be dragged around by George again. 

Just like now.

They walk in silence for a bit. The rain pitter-patters on the waterproof fabric of the umbrella and the water in the puddles jumps up against their ankles whenever one of them steps in it. Buildings fade and fizz out silently and almost unnoticeably around them, and it feels as if not enough time has passed when they arrive at a familiar house. 

“What,” says Paul, “we’re gonna visit Mimi?”

George stays silent. He just smiles knowingly and proceeds to drag him around back. 

The garden is as neat as it always was but less vibrant than Paul remembers it being. The colours of the flowers are muted, greyed, like a vague memory or a home-video damaged with age. 

John sits in the centre of the yard, on his arse, face turned up towards the sky. It looks like he’s welcoming the rain. He’s wearing his drainies and a white T-shirt that look impossibly dry, but his hair is flattened, grease washed out by water. It sticks to his forehead in dark auburn curls. 

Paul’s pulled closer and closer until he can almost count the freckles on the bridge of John’s nose, and then George mentions for him to sit down. He hesitates for a brief moment before he complies. 

The grass doesn’t feel wet. 

“This is _your_ fault, y’know,” says John, still facing the grey sky. “The weather. You’re sourin’ everything up with yer _gloomies.”_

Paul inhales. The lump has returned. _“Johnny?”_

_ “God,” _ his other late best mate mutters, and he finally turns his head forward to squint at him. “Who else? _Bloody Elvis?”_

He feels as though he could cry.

“Ye’re too ugly to be Elvis,” George sneers, and he avoids the flying hand that follows with a giggle. The banter is so awfully familiar the burning need to cry fades and Paul smiles weakly before closing the umbrella.

The raindrops aren’t cold on his skin in the slightest, but he notices that he’s slowly getting wet anyway. The droplets fall on his hair and slide down his scalp. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable in the slightest.

“So, Paulie,” John smirks. He looks so _young,_ so much like when they first met, and it’s jarring. “Tell me. How’s life?”

“I’m _dead,_ aren’t I?” he asks in lieu of answering. “You’re here, George’s here, but Ritchie’s not.”

“Whatever you wanna call it.” John drags a hand through his hair before patting the wet strands down again. “Dead, passed on, opened one door and closed another, the _motherfuckin’_ sequel of life, whatever.”

“Last instalment.”

“Shut up George.”

“Fuck off.”

“And why _here,_ then?” he inquires further. He carefully places the umbrella down next to him. “Why Liverpool?”

George shrugs. “Fuck if I know. This is _your_ afterlife, y’know. You decided it had to be like this.” He stretches out his arm, flattens his hand, and watches the raindrops pool in the centre of his palm. “The weather, though, that’s all yer mood.”

“Does it mean I’m sad?”

“A bit, probably.” George squints at him. “It was sunny until ye arrived.”

“Hear that? You’re takin’ the rain with ye,” says John. “Emotional sod, you are.”

Paul bites his lip. His brain feels a bit like cotton. “I don’t _understand,”_ he mutters. “I didn’t- why _here?”_

“It’s _your_ afterlife,” George repeats.

“Guess you missed Liddypool, son,” says John, and his smirk turns into a bashful smile. “Or us.”

_ “And  _ us,” George corrects, and he places his hand - warm, dry - on Paul’s leg. “Didn’t ye?”

“I missed you two more than I missed this place,” he says quietly, answering George’s smile with one of his own. Then he frowns. “But I lost others, too.”

John’s shy demeanour disappears and he looks away. “Suppose so, yeah, whatever.”

The move is so incredibly _John-like_ that he’d smile if it didn’t hurt. He almost feels guilty for bringing up that he’s loved people other than _them,_ especially considering the less-than-pleased reaction from John.

But George doesn’t appear to share John’s emotions. He offers Paul a sad smile instead. “Yer folks are at Forthlin,” he answers the unspoken question, sounding gentle and understanding, and Paul feels thankful. He pokes John with his foot who carefully turns to look at Paul again from under his lashes. “Lin’s in- she’s at the farm. Her place.”

“Oh,” Paul replies quietly. He doesn’t want to visit her just yet, and he almost feels ashamed to admit that. “Good to know.”

Silence. 

“What do _your_ afterlives look like, then?” he asks. “Suppose you lot didn’t ask for grey and gloomy Liddypool.”

George pulls a George-face. “It’s sunnier in mine.”

“Mine too,” John says with a small smile. “But like we said - it’s probably just yer mood - that, and the mood of the people you’re closest to.”

“You mean my family? And Ringo?”

“Sure,” says John. “Mine was grey and gloomy for a long time. Rain and thunder, and wind. It was like a tropical storm.”

“It drizzled for ages after I arrived,” George comments with a smile. “People expected mine, I suppose, so the pain was less intense for them. For John- well, it was incredibly unexpected, so that’d explain it.”

Paul scoffs. “You could say that.”

“You two contributed to me gloomy weather.” John sniffs. “Couldn’t enjoy the sun for weeks. It was awful.”

“Like _you_ can stay in the sun for longer than a bloody minute, ginger.”

_ “Hey-” _

“It’s not our afterlife entirely, then,” Paul concludes, ignoring the squabbling that makes him smile. “It’s also a little bit of the ones we are closest to.”

“I guess,” George pulls a blade of grass from the ground. As soon as it disconnects from its root, it turns a bright, emerald green. “Haven’t figured it out yet.”

“He will,” John remarks, and he pulls a silly face at the bright smile George shoots him. “Spiritual bastard.”

“One more question,” Paul then says, “why-”

“Oh, love, you’ll have a million more,” John giggles, “but please ask.”

“Why are you two so young?” he looks from one to the other. Not a wrinkle in sight on the both of them, and no grey hairs or receding hairlines either. Just them, barely eighteen and barely twenty-one. “I must look ancient, right?”

“You look like you’re in your thirties to me,” George picks a daisy, whose colours brighten significantly as soon as the stem breaks. “John about the same.”

“Both of you are still teens in my perspective.” John supplies.

“But-” Paul stutters, confused, “but _why?”_

George smiles. “Would you rather have us looking old?”

“I-” as soon as the curiosity starts bubbling, the wind picks up, blasting through Mimi’s immaculate garden like the aftershocks of a bomb. Paul hastily closes his eyes as the wind whips past him. 

As soon as it appeared, it vanished. He carefully opens his eyes, squinting in the direction of his friends, and there they sit. 

John looks exactly like the last time he’d seen him. Or, well, one of the last photos taken of him, hours before his death. Barefooted, in jeans and a black sweater, with his teddy-boy haircut. And then George, with a moustache and hair stopping at his jawline. He’s wearing a button-up, jeans, and socks. The wrinkles around their mouths and eyes and the hints of grey sprouting from their hairline reveal their ages. 

Paul blinks.

Squints.

“Are you wearin’ a _choker?”_

“It looks _good,_ okay?” George barks out a laugh, sounding a whole lot older. He tentatively touches the black band around his neck. “I liked it.”

“You should,” John says. “It’s a good look.”

Paul can’t stop the laughter from bubbling up when George gives him an _“I bloody told you so”-_ look while John gives him an obnoxious wink. He’d forgotten how disastrous and how _funny_ the combined presence of John and George actually is, not having been in the same room with the two of them together since the early seventies. They certainly appear to have made up in those decades they’ve spent together here, probably realising there’s no point in arguing. 

It’s nice to see them sit there, together, completely and entirely at peace. 

_ Peace. _

“Do ye think I’ll disturb them?” Paul says quietly, picking at his nails. His hands look a bit more aged now, as if they’ve seen a couple of years of sun. “Lin? My parents?”

“Geo scared the shit out of me,” John says honestly, and he hits away George’s attempts to pinch him. “I’m serious! An’ Mimi too, man. Jesus. I was in me own goddamn home and I jus’ got beeped to the place where she arrived. _Apparently,_ according to her, I looked _six.”_

“Ah,” George muses, “yes. You as a six-year-old. Yer perfect age, back when she still liked ye.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up.”

“So I will,” Paul concludes. “I will disturb them.”

John smiles kindly. “Maybe a little,” is his answer. “But they’ll be more than happy to see ye. Even Cyn turned up on my doorstep at some point, and I damn near cried.”

The hesitation must be written across his face in capital letters because George reaches out to grasp his hand with both of his. “If you’re not sure,” he says softly, “if you’re not ready, then don’t. Wait for another day or wait for another week. Wait for the rain to stop or wait for your sun to start shining again. They won’t mind.”

“All of time” says John, “lies in the palm of yer hand. You can do whatever you want with it. It took me a very long time before I visited Eppy, and I felt guilty about taking so long. But he didn’t care. _‘Got endless amounts of time here,’_ he said. _‘No point in hurrying.’_.” John shoots him a grin. “I’ve found he’s quite right about that.”

Paul looks at George with his kind smile and warm eyes, and then looks at John with his smile lines and carefree expression, and the hesitance has barely faded away before he manages to make up his mind.

“I’d like to see Lin,” he announces quietly. “Not face to face, I don’t need to do that yet- but just from a distance. Or where she is, at least.” He brings the thumb of his free hand up to his mouth. “Y’know?”

“Of course,” George says, and he stands up to pull both Paul and John upright. “Let’s go.”

They walk this time as well and Paul leaves the umbrella on the grass in favour of feeling the rain on his face. It’s as if he can feel his loved ones’ grief as the droplets hit his forehead and drip down his cheeks, and it’s also as if it helps him to come to terms with him being here, and not there. He reckons the umbrella will appear when he needs it again.

The environment changes even quicker than it did last time, when he and George had walked from the station to Woolton. Within seconds the empty suburb morphs into the lush, familiar countryside with endless rolling hills. 

Paul spots the farm almost immediately. 

It’s sunny over there, as if the weather that belongs to Paul now hasn’t had the chance to catch up with him yet. A blonde, female figure is rummaging about in the backyard, and big, grey-and-white dog running in circles around her. She stands still for a moment, as if she’s looking at something behind Paul, and then walks up to the back door to disappear inside the house. The dog follows suit.

“Scotland, then,” Paul says quietly. “Didn’t expect that.”

“What were ye expecting?”

“Sussex, where the kids went to school.” Paul swallows. He’d been a terrible husband here, and Sussex is where James grew up. Though the place is filled with memories as much as Sussex is as well, with warmth and growth and laughter and music, he has difficulty believing this is where she wants to be most now. “She liked this more, apparently.”

He stares at the blue-and-red roofing, at the old stones making up the walls. As expected, the clouds are starting to catch up, cold shadow replacing warm light. The wind picks up and Paul feels rain against the back of his neck. 

There’s a lump in his throat and a ball in his stomach.

“I really want to wait a little while longer,” he says, unable to prevent his voice from quivering, “before visiting Lin. Or my parents. Or- or anyone else.”

“Okay,” John says softly.

“Take as long as you need,” George adds.

Paul stares at the farmhouse for a little while longer. There’s smoke coming from the chimney, and his eyes start burning again. The rain worsens. “I don’t want to take their sunshine away.”

John sighs. “We know,” he murmurs, “we understand.”

“Do whatever you want to do, Paulie,” George tells him. His arm is gently placed over Paul’s shoulders, and he closes his eyes briefly when George pulls him close. “It’s your afterlife, after all.”

“He’s right,” John says, and he links their elbows together. “All yours, and all theirs. Time lies in the palm of your hand.”

Paul inhales deeply and shakily before he grabs for his umbrella. It appears out of thin air, feeling heavy in his hand as he runs his thumb over the vertical grain on the handle. He pops it open. 

“Come on,” he says softly as he blinks away the tears, and both George and John look at him questioningly. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

And so they do.

They walk. They wade through the knee-length grass of the countryside, run over the bouncy, leaf-covered ground of dark forests, and hike over the perilous mountain paths – and Paul realises they can walk anywhere they want to walk towards. No matter how far, no matter how many oceans and mountain ranges and canyons, they can _go._

The rain might not stop for a while. It’s all up to his family and friends, those he loved during his lifetime. It depends on how long they grieve. But the umbrella is large enough for the three of them, and they’ve got all the time in the world, so they’ll stay together here for as long as they need to and for as long as he wants to. And when Ritchie joins someday, and the rain will once again fall without knowing when it’ll stop, he’ll tuck himself under John’s arm and the umbrella will grow a little bigger.

It _is_ theirafterlife, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.


End file.
